


Wolves and Men

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Werewolf Courting, Werewolf Jaskier, Werewolf Mates, nonhuman jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: There was a challenge in his expression. A dare for Geralt to cast him aside once more.Like he had on the mountain.If life could give me one blessing—Geralt shook his head to banish the memory of those vicious words. Words he’d had plenty of time to regret in the years since Jaskier had walked away. Since Gerat had sent him away.“Jaskier,” he whispered, voice thick.________________________Jaskier thought he'd found the perfect alpha to follow for the rest of his life only to be cast aside.  He should have known better--the White Wolf always hunts alone.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 117
Kudos: 1982
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Finished Fics I Love, Geralt is Sorry, Witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a quick little drabble and has developed into a full story in my head. Sweet werewolf Jaskier has stolen my heart and I needed to give him some space to roam.

Geralt knew Jaskier wasn’t human.

Of course, it took dying for him to see just how truly  _ inhuman _ the bard was.

It was a Nilfgaardian soldier that scored the blow that would kill him. After all his years of hunting, Geralt couldn’t help but be a little disappointed that some whelp with more mud than blood on his armor was about to end his career.

There’d been others before him. Endless waves of black armor and hate-filled faces charging toward the lone Witcher waiting in the center of the field.

But this boy would be the end of him.

He watched the blade strike deep into his gut even as he spun to parry. It burned like fire ripping through the muscles and he stumbled, grace defeated by the ugly reality of war. There were too many enemies. Too many heart beats. Too many twitching corpses for his senses to keep track of.

Geralt fell.

His long sword—steel for humans—rolled just out of reach as his fist found a new home pressed against the raw agony of his wound. He stared up into the eyes of the terrified boy and felt his death settle like gravity into his bones.

“Do it then,” he said and bared his teeth.

All Witchers prepared for this moment all their lives. Ciri would be safe with Yennefer. Roach would wander back to Kaer Morhen to retire in peace and Geralt...Geralt would rather drink acid than spend his last moments on earth begging for mercy or hoping for a miracle.

He knew he didn’t deserve one.

The nameless soldier raised his sword in shaking hands and Geralt watched it fall—

Something roared in fury, dark and vicious enough that Geralt instinctively reached for the wolf medallion around his neck. Then a figure stepped between the Witcher and the falling sword.

Impossibly fast.

Inhumanly vicious as the creature reached up and savagely raked its claws through the soldier’s gut and into his chest.

His scream was nearly drowned out by the roar of adrenaline in Geralt’s body. Whatever beast that had entered the battlefield would turn on him next, he had no doubt. The only question left was if Geralt’s sword and drained magic reserve was enough to keep him alive.

He kept his eyes on the beast as it leapt ten feet onto another soldier struggling to attack once more. Geralt forced his legs to push him back towards his sword, trying not to make enough noise to attract its attention. The best he could do was keep his pained grunts between gritted teeth and try to avoid the metal armor on the bodies around him.

There was a snap of a twig near him and he froze, understanding for the first time what it meant to be prey. He rolled hard, arms reaching out to snatch for his weapon even as a clawed hand batted it away.

Firm hands snatched him by his pauldrons and forced him on his back, hands pinned above his head. Geralt bucked, ignoring the pain of the movement in the wake of his panic. There were few creatures who were stronger and faster than Witchers. None of them would be kind to an injured hunter.

Hot breath scented with the iron and rust of blood and the oddly familiar scent of—

_ Jaskier _ .

Geralt opened his eyes and gaped up at the creature—the bard—above him.

His face was an odd mixture of beast and man. Bright blue eyes stared out at him from a face that was slowly shifting back to human from the wolffish snout of before. The pale skin of a man used to courtly life returned, streaked with blood and gore that he didn’t bother to wipe away.

There was a challenge in his expression. A dare for Geralt to cast him aside once more.

Like he had on the mountain.

_ If life could give me one blessing _ —Geralt shook his head to banish the memory of those vicious words. Words he’d had plenty of time to regret in the years since Jaskier had walked away. Since Gerat had  _ sent _ him away.

“Jaskier,” he whispered, voice thick.

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment before slowly getting off of him and standing fully. He glanced around the battlefield with his lips pursed in an uncharacteristically somber look.

“You should go,” he said with a hint of a growl lingering in his voice, “before more come.”

He turned to walk away and Geralt couldn’t help the way he tried to follow—blood loss be damned.

“ _ Jaskier _ .”

The bard didn’t bother to turn around. “There’s a healer a quarter mile down the road. She’ll help you with your stomach.”

“Wait, Jaskier—“

“I’ll let you return to your blessings now.”

And then he was gone.

Geralt let himself fall back in the mud and tried to breathe through the emotions swamping him. All of which could be summed up with a—

“ _ Fuck _ .”


	2. Chapter 2

The problem had always been how laughably unobservant Geralt could be. He was used to monsters who rushed towards him with teeth bared and claws extended—not blue eyed men wearing their heart on their sleeves and hoping for adventure.

Jaskier had been alone then, wearing the title of outcast with practiced grace. Anything was better than being bullied as one of his pack’s only beta wolves. They’d thought him weak. Just another useless plaything that lacked the power to be an alpha. No beta would ever be expected to hunt or fight as fiercely as the more dominant members of the pack. 

They forgot that betas were the heart of each pack. The ones who soothed the hurts left behind by words as well as blades. The ones who gave the pack something to fight for. They could rally a pack as easily as any alpha’s war cry if they were threatened and would fight to their dying breath to protect their family. Betas were what kept a pack of wolves from losing the last of their humanity and becoming the type of monsters that attracted Witchers.

Unfortunately, the new alpha of his pack hadn’t upheld the old laws or ways and wanted the precious few betas who survived the change to be treated as weaklings--useless for anything but menial chores.

Jaskier had proven him wrong the night he’d torn out the throat of the alpha who’d tried to force him into his bed and disappeared. He was hardly the first lone wolf to go out in the world. He could find a new pack in the crowds that would come to hear his songs one day.

He’d thought to head for the coast, but found himself in Posada instead. He was lonely and aching for even a hint of a pack to call his own.

Then he met Geralt.

Despite his Witcher status, he appealed to Jaskier’s wolf. He was strong. Quick. Even cunning when he needed to be. 

And—once he’d stopped grumbling about Jaskier’s continued presence—Gerat was kind.

Only a kind man would try to protect a person he’d just met from the elves attacking them both. He might grumble and curse, but he was more than willing to throw himself into the line of fire to save someone else. Even when it meant adding to the collection of scars.

He’d even allowed Jaskier to tag along with him after the fight with the elves. Sure, he complained about Jaskier’s singing, his lute, and just in general, but Jaskier knew he didn’t mean it. He could hear the slight stutter of his heart that happened anytime Jaskier was overly affectionate or smiled at him a certain way. Maybe one day he would be able to break through all the walls around Geralt’s heart.

Jaskier had to fight the blush that threatened to darken his cheeks the first time Geralt offered him the choice meat from the deer he killed. Or when Geralt tossed him a new pair of boots and a snug coat when Jaskier’s began to fall apart. It took all his control not to howl his delight each time Geralt protected him from threats and chased away his enemies.

Like a true alpha. Like his  _ mate _ .

Witchers had no knowledge of werewolf courting customs. He wasn’t trying to prove himself to be a good mate and capable alpha. He was just being a friend—or as close to a friend as he was capable of.

Such displays meant nothing to humans--even magically altered ones--and Jaskier forced himself to overlook the way something deep in his chest went warm and languid each time Geralt cared for him or treated him like a pack mate. He knew better than to hope.

But then there was the  _ bathing _ .

There was hardly any platonic explanation for allowing anyone close while the Witcher was so unguarded and vulnerable. He’d put his back to Jaskier like he  _ trusted _ him and Jaskier felt something feral in him that wanted to snarl at the thought of what he would do to keep this human safe and protected. Betas might not be naturally aggressive, but they protected what was  _ theirs _ . Jaskier had barely resisted purring his satisfaction when he had Geralt relaxed and practically sleeping in his arms while he picked through the tangles in his pale hair.

_ Like liquid moonlight _ , he thought when he was in a poetic mood.

And, like the moon, Geralt had proven to be unattainable.

First came Yennefer, the mage who clearly fit all of the qualities Geralt looked for in a mate. She was just as strong and twice as vicious as his Witcher. Time and time again he watched Geralt fall to her siren’s song and wicked smiles. No matter how hard Jaskier fought to stay by his side, it was obvious that he would lose to her pull. The years of traveling together hadn’t changed anything between the two of them, despite how desperately Jaskier wanted it.

He told himself he could be content with his small pack. He could survive as long as he could follow along with Roach and Geralt by his side. He could be content with hiding his longing with blonde men and women if he ignored his senses screaming at him that it _wasn’t right._ ~~It wasn’t his _mate_.~~

If Geralt was happy, Jaskier could survive his breaking heart.

But then he watched Geralt turn on him, eyes bright and molten with his rage and feral as any wolf could hope for.

He listened to him cast aside Jaskier as easily as he had every other human he’d ever known. Like Jaskier meant nothing to him. Like everything they’d shared was nothing more than a fable Jaskier had created.

He felt that tether deep in his spine, sitting like a length of spun gold, go taut before falling limp. Just like his hopes for a home, a pack, with the man he’d loved for decades.

_ If life could give me one blessing... _

Jaskier turned and walked into the trees, barely waiting until he was out of sight before shifting into his wolf form. He ran. Hard and reckless and half blind with grief. He didn’t bother to watch where he was going or worry about what would happen to the lute he’d left behind.

The hopes and love he’d poured into every note and lyric felt like poison now. He couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t pretend to be Jaskier the bard when his chest felt like a gaping, angry wound. He couldn’t.

Just as he couldn’t seem to stay away from Geralt even when he tried to honor his  mate’s former friend’s wish to leave him alone. 

The pack bond between them—weak and broken as it was now—still drew him back to Geralt’s side. Somehow he always found himself in the same town or nearly running into the Witcher in his travels. More often than not, he slept out in the woods, curled up with his tail over his nose and one ear cocked for any threats. Sometimes he even caught the scent of leather and horse and blood that made the weakest part of him whimper in delight before he forced himself to turn around and lose himself in the trees.

But there was no way to remain out of sight and mind when Geralt fell beneath the soldier’s blade.

_ Nononononono—get up, Geralt _ ! He wanted to scream, but all that came out was a low whine.

He watched the soldier raise his sword high for the final blow and Geralt slowly relax into the earth like he was preparing himself for the end—

Running out of the woods wasn’t so much a decision as it was a bone deep  _ need _ to get to Geralt’s side. He could feel his body shifting back into the partial shift that would give him the size and speed he needed to protect his Witcher.

He leapt the last few feet and was rewarded with the bright red burst of life’s blood across his claws. Somewhere behind him, he could smell the bitter scent of fear and surprise from the Witcher, but he didn’t dare to stop. The beast within him wanted to roar at the opportunity to prove himself a worthy packmate and he allowed it to carry himself across the battlefield until the only ones left alive were Geralt and himself.

Heart in his throat, he turned to watch Geralt take him in with wide yellow eyes. Part of him wished that the time apart would taint the desire he felt for the Witcher, but it was a foolish wish.

“You should go,” Jaskier rasped, the beast still present in his voice, “before more come.”

“Jaskier.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to memorize the scent of Geralt after so long apart. It was weak and it was foolish, but he let himself have this last memory of seeing his Witcher without his fury tainting things.

“There’s a healer about a quarter mile away,” he said softly. He would go ahead of Geralt to ensure she met him on the road and pay her what was left of the money in his purse. He could do that much. “She’ll help you.”

“Wait, Jaskier--” The Witcher sounded faintly panicked and Jaskier was weak enough to look back at him one last time.

Geralt was still beautiful. Even covered in blood and gaping up at him in shock.

And he still didn’t want him.

So, Jaskier forced himself to ignore the complicated emotions on the other man’s face and keep his voice as even as possible.

“I’ll let you return to your blessings now.”

Each word twisted the knife in his chest with excruciating pain and he let himself sink deeper into his own misery. Anything to remind himself why he’d been forced to stay away for so long.

Geralt opened his mouth again, but Jaskier moved faster than he could form the words. His heart couldn’t take another rejection. His beast was barely functioning as it was. It wanted to throw himself at Geralt’s feet and beg for him to let him stay, but the human knew that he wasn’t wanted. Not anymore. Not ever.

He ran until his feet bled and his legs had gone numb.

Only then did he allow himself to collapse.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer is a gift. That is all.

The sound of a fist pounding against the wooden door was enough to wake the dead and certainly enough to drag Yennefer from her bed.

She came to the door with a scowl and clear warning crackling in the air around her like the pause before lightning struck. The mage looked supremely unimpressed to see a Witcher standing outside her door with an expression that was a mixture of confused and frustrated. 

“What do you want?” she asked in a clipped voice. 

It had been months since their fight on the mountain, but there was still a part of her that was bitter at the reminder of the bond the Witcher had forced on her. Neither of them were ready to discuss everything they’d hoped for at the beginning of their tumultuous relationship. All of that had been tossed aside the moment Ciri reunited with Geralt and he shifted his focus to keeping his child surprise safe. It was for Ciri’s sake that the mage remained polite anytime Geralt came calling. 

That courtesy did not extend to late night visits.

Geralt’s mouth opened and closed like he had forgotten what had brought him to her door and she frowned, looking past him to where Roach stood alone near the plain fence surrounding her property.

“Where’s your little bard? I would have thought he’d have begged his way back into your good graces by now.”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Geralt growled and Yennefer blinked, surprised by the ferocity in his voice. The Witcher blinked like he was a little surprised by it as well.

“You’ve never cared about how I spoke to him before...” She stared at him for another long moment, taking in the way his shoulders were slouched and how he avoided her eyes and realized what this was really about. “What did you do?” 

He flinched at the accusation in her voice and looked away. “Nothing…”

“What did you do to the bard?” she asked again, voice sharp. 

It was no secret that she and Jaskier had never gotten along. Both of them were bound to Geralt--by choice or by cause--and struggled to coexist. It was clear that Jaskier considered Yennefer a threat to his position at Geralt’s side. Their relationship was just as complicated as the one between the mage and Witcher, forged by years of struggle and traveling together instead of a wish cast in the heat of the moment. 

Then there was the fact that Jaskier had been hopelessly in love with Geralt for as long as she’d known him.

He wasn’t subtle. Every word of every song was crafted with enough layers of longing and affection that her initial reaction had been disgust. It was easier to tease and annoy the man who was so open with his feelings. Better Yennefer’s sharp sarcasm than the knives and fists of less accepting folk, she reasoned. After years of watching the two of them together, her irritation with the younger man had softened into something closer to protective exasperation. Jaskier’s love of the Witcher was something pure and vulnerable in a world full of people who would use it against him and it deserved her protection.

If Geralt had done something to harm that innocent love, she’d beat him herself.

“Back at the mountain,” Geralt muttered, “I said some things… after the dragon hunt.”

Her eyes narrowed at the reminder of how their developing relationship had just as quickly disappeared. “What did you say?”

“I told him to leave,” he said shortly, summarizing what she had no doubt was a cruel conversation.

“So you blamed him.”

Geralt looked down, the air of misery deepening around him, but she had no sympathy.

“I suppose he always was an easy target for you,” she said without pity, “Always following at your heels, eager for any scraps of affection you might toss his way.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Don’t be dense, Geralt. The whole Continent knew the boy was in love with you.”

The Witcher glared at her. “I didn’t ask for him to follow me.”

“No, but we both know he wouldn’t have been able to follow if you didn’t want him there. You had no problem leaving him behind to return to Kaer Morhen each winter.”

“This was different,” Geralt said, shifting a little in her doorway. “I never wanted someone to rely on me--I never wanted to get involved.”

Yennefer snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. “You mean like you did with Renfri?” The reminder of what he’d shared in the safety of their bed made his jaw clench, but she carried on ruthlessly. “You’ve been lying to yourself for years, Geralt. You can’t help getting involved every time someone needs you. It’s why you ended up with a bard following you in the first place...after all, you could have just left him with the elves.”

Geralt scowled. “He didn’t belong in our world. He’s too fragile.”

“You’re the only one who thinks that.”

He looked down, scarred hands clenching into fists. “He needed to go home.”

“You  _ were _ his home.”

The words landed like a blow and a part of her was sympathetic to the uncomfortable expression on his face.

She hadn’t known what it was like to be such an important part of someone’s life until Ciri. Her life had been marked by manipulations and constant reminders that trusting another person would only end in heartbreak. As much as she’d hated Geralt for what he’d done to her, she had to be grateful for what it had taught her. 

It was possible to belong to another without the cost of her freedoms. It was possible to build a family of her own--strange as it was. 

It was also possible to find yourself bound to the most oblivious Witcher in existence.

Geralt cursed under his breath and shifted like he was contemplating running away from this uncomfortable feeling. Yennefer waited him out, merciless in her dedication to forcing this man to understand just how royally he’d screwed this up. One day, perhaps, she would use this moment to antagonize Jaskier, but, for now, she was content to ensure that if the bard didn’t receive an apology he would at least have some revenge.

The Witcher moved away from her with an explosion of breath that might have frightened someone who didn’t know it was all self-directed. She watched him prowl towards Roach, then hesitate at the fence with his back to her.

“Did you know?” he asked softly.

“Know what?”

Geralt’s eyes glittered in the reflection of the light from her home. “Did you know he wasn’t human?”

She hummed, considering the clues she’d picked up during the rare meetings she’d had with both of them. It was obvious that there was something off about the bard after twenty years of travel still left him fresh faced. Her magic had reacted strangely to him when she’d treated him for the Djinn’s magic. The fact that the Djinn had attacked him at all was another symptom of something being strange about Jaskier. The creature must have considered him a threat even in the Witcher’s presence and attacked him while the Witcher was still protected by the magic of their agreement.

Then there was the way he’d handled himself in the face of any threat. She’d seen the bard take down a group of brawny farmers when Geralt was away on a hunt without any bruises to show for it. He’d healed faster than any human she’d known and it was only Geralt’s inexperience with humans that kept him from seeing all the clues before him.

It wasn’t until she’d heard him growl and snap at a man loudly proclaiming Witchers were monsters that she’d connected the dots. 

Werewolf.

The knowledge hadn’t come with any peace. A few curious sessions in Aretuza’s libraries confirmed her suspicion and added a depth of knowledge that only made Jaskier’s obvious affections for Geralt even more painful. Jaskier treated Geralt like he would a precious member of his pack. Like he was his mate.

“He never told you…” she murmured, shaking her head at the thought. “Poor little wolf.”

“He should have told me.”

Yennefer snorted. “He probably thought you’d kill him like you did all the other monsters you hunt.”

“Jaskier isn’t a monster,” Geralt growled, looking offended at the very thought.

“He isn’t human though. Never was. It’s why he followed you for so long despite every reason you gave him to leave.”

He frowned at the thought. “You think he…?”

“Gods, Geralt, even you aren’t this dense,” Yennefer said when it was clear he wouldn’t finish the question. “The bard was in love with you, treated you like his pack, and spent twenty years trying to erase the tale of the Butcher of Blaviken. And when he tried to comfort you, you rejected him like it all meant nothing.”

Geralt was silent, looking horrified and disgusted with himself.

“Now the only question is...what are you going to do about it?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I can't stand Yennefer in the Netflix show. 
> 
> Also me: *Makes her the hero of every Geraskier fic*
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this brief bit of plot before Geralt goes and gets his man!


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt couldn’t find Jaskier anywhere.

After his conversation with Yennefer, he’d gritted his teeth and forced himself to recognize all the ways he had truly and thoroughly fucked this up. Jaskier had been his friend for years before Yennefer had arrived in a wave of magic and secrets. He had been the only human Geralt had ever truly trusted and proven his loyalty over and over again.

Only for Geralt to turn on him in a moment of weakness.

Knowing that Jaskier was a born wolf shifter made that moment even more terrible. Like their animal counterparts, Geralt knew that wolves craved a pack. Packs helped them control the urges of their animal sides and were considered almost sacred to their societies. Witchers were only called on to hunt shifters on rare occasions as they were just as inclined to violence as any human and usually regulated themselves well enough. Jaskier must have had to struggle much harder than most to have traveled alone for so long.

Geralt tried not to think about how eager Jaskier had been to see another non-human in his midst. For all his awkward attempts at flirtation, he’d been painfully eager for the scraps of affection Geralt offered on rare occasions. Looking back, he could see how hard Jaskier had been trying to make himself fit in with Geralt as though they were packmates. How he’d learned how to live on the road, how he helped care for Roach--Jaskier had even learned how to assist Geralt on the occasional hunt when he needed a potion.

He’d gotten too used to traveling alone. Jaskier’s presence had forced him to think beyond the day’s labor and the next contract. He reminded him that he was more than a blade or some arrow searching for a target. Jaskier had been the one to insist that Geralt allowed himself to heal from wounds, to take time to rest between hunts, and showed how much he cared in a million tiny, wonderful ways. It was time Geralt acknowledged that.

Yennefer’s reaction to the news of just how badly Geralt had fucked up the only relationship that had ever really mattered to him had been a knife in an already gaping wound. His guilt only grew at the reminder of how much worse it must have been for Jaskier to be rejected by a packmate as a wolf. Jaskier’s flirtations had been easy to ignore when he could remind himself that he was young and that he would eventually leave Geralt for greener pastures one day. But as a shifter, Jaskier would live as long as any Witcher and was durable enough to survive the dangers of the Path.

Knowing this had opened Geralt’s mind to a long list of temptations he’d been able to ignore for years by taking Jaskier to the nearest town and watching him fall into bed with the first attractive woman he saw. It helped erase the feeling that grew in his chest each time Jaskier would reach out and touch him or smile at him as though he wasn’t another monster in human skin. He wasn’t sure when he’d started to crave having someone to talk to each time he made his way back to camp or to listen to ramble on with every mile they traveled. 

Somehow in the miles between Posada and the rest of the Continent he had begun to develop  _ feelings _ for the bard.

It was more than friendship. Something powerful enough that seeing Jaskier covered in blood and gasping for air through the djinn’s magic left Geralt with so much panic that he’d rushed right into a strange sorceress’ arms.

Compared to Jaskier, Yennefer was easy. She didn’t actually  _ need _ Geralt. Her power was enough that she could respond to any threat with or without his help. Even better, she didn’t seem to mind bedding a Witcher or any of the problems that came with it. He’d even begun to believe she could make him happy, that they could grow old together.

Only to have it fall apart on the dragon hunt.

It was only months later that he realized that the only person who had ever seen all of the darkest parts of him and still welcomed him with a smile each time had been the person he’d hurt the most. Jaskier deserved better than his monosyllabic conversation skills or his gore covered lifestyle. He deserved a life of leisure and joy with some doe-eyed woman who’d dote on each and every verse and lyric that dropped from his lips.

But he’d chosen Geralt.

Jaskier had turned away every chance at a place at court to stay by Geralt’s side. He’d weathered every storm, faced down countless monsters, and proved over and over again that he was more than just another bard seeking inspiration. He could have anyone and he’d chosen Geralt. It was an honor that Geralt would spend the rest of his life fighting to deserve--starting by apologizing for all the ways he had fucked up over the last twenty years.

So he started with the taverns he knew Jaskier liked to frequent. They were dotted along the Continent and he tried not to think about the way they all seemed to lead back to the coast Jaskier had tried to get him to return to. 

_ Fuck _ , he had so much to apologize for--but first, he needed to find the little wolf. 

Unfortunately, Jaskier hadn’t been to any of his usual haunts for months now. Most of the bartenders and innkeepers were sure that the bard had settled down with some noblewoman to wait out the year, but Geralt knew better. Jaskier had looked half-wild when he’d come to Geralt’s defense against the soldiers. His hair had been curling around his ears and his clothing bore none of the fancier silks that he wore when he was frequenting the courts. No, Jaskier was not bundled up with a noblewoman. So where  _ was _ he?

* * *

Geralt was  _ tired _ . It was his only excuse for allowing a group of humans jump him outside of the tavern where he’d been collecting his payment for finishing off a selkiemore that had been tormenting the locals.

It had been weeks since he’d last seen Jaskier and he was beginning to worry that maybe the bard had gotten hurt. He’d been so quick to attack when Geralt had fallen--did that mean he was beginning to struggle with his animal side after losing his makeshift pack? The thought had been enough to keep Geralt from being able to sleep more than a few hours a week. Instead, he tossed and turned beneath his bedroll and glared up at the moon and stars.

Then the damned selkiemore was far more trouble than he’d planned. It had been holed up in a bog filled with sinkholes and thick mud that made every movement perilous. The creature had been furious and vicious enough to slice a long line down Geralt’s leg that burned with every movement. After killing and beheading the creature, he’d still had to hike back to town to deliver his gory proof and collect his payment before he could lay down like he was aching to do.

One moment he had been tucking the coin purse into his pack and the next a thick branch was slamming against the back of his head.

He stumbled, vision blackening dangerously with the movement. 

Someone shouted triumphantly nearby and he turned toward the sound blindly, only to feel a booted foot slam against his spine. Geralt growled with a mixture of pain and fury at the unexpected attack. He could smell the alcohol on their breath as they surrounded him, giving courage to the type of humans that hated a Witcher on sight. 

Their hate was nothing new to Geralt after so many years on the road. He could recognize the narrowed eyes and curled lips that signaled a need for him to pack up early and avoid lingering at the tavern that night. It was just that he’d gotten used to the effect Jaskier’s charm and songs could have on a crowd. All it took was a few bars of ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’ and villagers were almost eager to see him return after a hunt.

Still, he knew better than to ignore the mounting tension that had been like a gathering storm at his arrival. In the wake of the war with Nilfgaard, the survivors were looking for someone to blame--and Witchers were always an easy target.

The next blow clipped his chin and he flung his hand out in a wave of magic that sent two of the men off their feet and against the bar wall. Before he could use that to his advantage, more villagers rushed in the gap and he caught a flash of several farming tools raised with deadly intent. He could smell their rage and fury in the air like a cloud and beneath it--

Cedar and meadowgrass.

He had enough time to jerk his head up in surprise before a dark shape was leaping over him and slamming into the largest of the group. The wolf was large enough to bear the man to the ground as it would a deer and it snapped its jaws in clear warning at his face. 

The shock from the unexpected attack gave Geralt enough time to yank a rake away from the villager to his left and slam it like a bat against another. The man’s howl of pain seemed to shake the others from their shock.

He spun the handle of his makeshift weapon to strike a man wielding a kitchen knife that was closing on the wolf’s exposed flank. In return, the wolf grabbed another by the leg and sent him tumbling into two others. Geralt gave a feral smile at how easily they seemed to work together after so many years of traveling and hunting together. His exhaustion buried itself under the familiar rhythm of battle and the thrill of seeing Jaskier again. 

The rake snapped over the back of a brawny man covered in the ash that marked him as the town’s blacksmith and he could practically fear the mob-based confidence of his attackers beginning to fade. He kicked another into the water trough and relished the shriek of terror his next victim emitted when Geralt bared his teeth in his direction. Self preservation won out over valor and he turned tail and ran, followed quickly by the rest of the group still capable of upright movement.

Then it was just Geralt and Jaskier.

For a moment, they stood, breathing heavily through the last of the adrenaline and watching the others leave with dark satisfaction. Then Geralt made the mistake of looking over at the wolf and felt the high of the moment fade under the tension of finally being alone with the bard.

“Jaskier,” he said softly, a thread of an emotion that he couldn’t name ruining his voice.

The wolf shot a look at him and flattened his ears, a growl of warning rumbling in his chest. 

This close, Geralt could finally see the glory of what Jaskier looked like in a full shift. Dark chocolate fur covered lean muscles and a body built for racing through trees and thickets after prey. The same blue eyes that had haunted his dreams for years stared up at him with clear irritation.

Geralt took a step toward him only for Jaskier to trot away, heading back towards the trees. 

Before he could disappear again, the Witcher ignored the protest of his aching body and raced after him. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Next chapter will finally feature some resolutions between these two losers. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long--my muse was not cooperating.

Geralt stumbled after the shadow of fur and graceful limbs with none of his usual speed or skill. He was too damn tired and injured to do more than fix his eyes to the shape of the wolf moving through the trees and force his body to keep moving. 

All his mind could focus on was one, singular command:

_ Don’t lose him again.  _

Jaskier didn’t seem inclined to do Geralt any favors in that regard even if he’d thrown himself into the fight earlier. The hair on the nape of his neck stood up in spiky tufts that paralleled the stiff, irritated gait he maintained. It was an obvious warning that the wolf was not interested in company at the moment. A warning that Geralt pointedly ignored. 

So they continued into the trees until the sounds of the village were left far behind them. Geralt's side was bleeding steadily now and he pressed a hand against it, wishing he’d stopped to fetch Roach from the stables. He hadn’t been willing to risk losing Jaskier to the wilds again. Roach wouldn’t mind a few extra nights in the stables and he’d have to make do without his potions for now. 

The trees around them slowly began to grow dark with evening shadows, but Jaskier didn’t seem inclined to stop his forward momentum. He never looked back once at Geralt even if it was obvious he knew he was being followed. He also didn’t speed up beyond what Geralt could manage in his weakened state which made hope race in his blood. 

Maybe he could salvage this after all. 

As if the fates were laughing at the thought, Geralt’s foot caught the edge of an exposed tree root and he fell. Hard. The sudden movement made the wound on his side flare with jagged agony and he made a low sound of pain. Stubbornly, he forced himself to his hands and knees, ignoring the blood dripping onto the leaves, and shook his head to try to dispel the grey spots that lingered in his vision. 

He couldn’t stop now. 

He couldn’t lose Jaskier again. 

There was a sound of a stick snapping underfoot nearby but he couldn’t focus on anything but the heartbeat roaring in his ears. Getting to his feet felt like a Herculean effort, but he managed it with hands gone numb and a head that felt stuffed with cotton. He blinked, each movement slow and painful. 

A shadow moved closer and his hands twitched at his side for the blade he’d left on the ground outside the inn with his attackers. His blood soaked trail was a siren call for all manner of creatures—monster or not. Jaskier must have continued forward without him and Geralt reminded himself he deserved nothing more than that. 

He coughed, mouth dry as his stained shirt was not, and tried to lean against a tree. If he could just catch his balance, he could keep moving. He  _ had _ to keep moving.

Geralt swayed again, fingers skating over rough bark before hitting empty air. 

He fell and did not get back up. 

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, there was only darkness and shadows.

Geralt shifted, still feeling the urge to get to his feet even if his mind couldn’t quite piece together why at the moment. All he knew was that it was important. That he had to move or he would lose something important.  _ Someone _ important. Someone he’d hurt--

A growl rumbled near his ear and just that quickly he knew who he’d been trying to reach.

Jaskier.

He must have said the word out loud because the wolf gave him a gimlet stare, pointedly pointing its snout back toward the bedroll behind him. 

Geralt smiled at him, painfully relieved, and let himself lay back. “You didn’t leave…”

Jaskier sneezed and stood, body still stiff with irritation. Another low growl filled the air between them when the Witcher reached out and grabbed onto the wolf’s leg in a light hold, forcing him to stay still beside him.

Geralt knew he should feel bad for antagonizing the wolf after all he’d done, but he couldn’t help but feel the bloom of happiness he now recognized as something unique to being near the bard. It settled beneath his skin, as familiar as the heat of the sun.

He fell back asleep with a small smile.

* * *

The next time he opened his eyes, it was to the familiar brush of a soft, whiskery nose snuffling at his hairline with feigned interest.

His voice was rough with sleep. “Roach.”

The mare snuffled along his cheek before snorting in disgust at the affectionate gesture. Geralt listened to the sound of her hoofbeats moving away in search of better food, tired of looking after her irritating Witcher.

His body still ached when he forced himself to sit up, but it was a manageable pain. It would be a few days before he could take on another contract without risk of injuring himself further. He’d have to entertain himself with beating each and every one of the men who’d attacked him at the tavern. Until then, he could focus on making things right with his bard.

The campsite around him was unfamiliar despite the gear from his pack. The remains of a small fire was still smoking nearby, close enough to ward away the chill from the night. None of the blood that must have marked where he’d collapsed was present and he was grateful for the reprieve against other predators. Beneath him, the second bedroll-- _ Jaskier’s _ bedroll--was carefully arranged to keep him off the ground with a little extra padding. His saddle and tack for Roach were neatly placed off the ground on a low hanging branch to keep them dry and clean. Even his mare’s presence proved Jaskier had thought of everything that was important to the Witcher. Everything except his bard.

There was no sign of the wolf anywhere.

Geralt stared at the camp for a long moment, processing the amount of care put into ensuring everything was arranged to his liking. He glanced down at his chest and noticed the thick bandaging that had been carefully arranged and changed at least once since he’d last woken up. Rubbing a hand over the injury, he looked around again for some sign of Jaskier.

It was obvious that all of this could never have happened without Jaskier shifting back into his human form and Geralt was eager to see it for himself. It had been too long without the familiar expressions and clever mouth at his side.

“Jaskier?” he called.

Silence.

Wincing, Geralt pushed himself to his feet, only needing to brace himself once against the tree nearby. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but he ignored it in favor of calling out for the bard again.

The thought that Jaskier might have chosen to leave him again once he was healed ached worse than the injuries. His bard had never been one to hold a grudge, but it was Geralt’s own words that continued to keep the barrier in place between them. Jaskier believed the words Geralt had shouted at him so long ago and would remain far away from his former friend based on them. 

_ I’ll let you return to your blessings now… _

Geralt scowled, furious with himself and walked toward his pack. He rifled through his potions for the concoctions that would speed his recovery and fished out a few pieces of jerky as well. His stomach was yowling a complaint at being ignored for so long and he knew it would help ensure he’d be back to normal more quickly. He couldn’t help but wonder who had been taking care of Jaskier while he was out in the woods.

He looked around again for the wolf, worry eating away at him. The bard he’d known had hated the woods, preferring to lounge across bars and scarred tabletops. Jaskier had enjoyed the lights of civilization and seemed most alive in front of a crowd. The fact that he’d been avoiding both because of Geralt made his guilt almost overwhelming. He had to make this right.

There was the sound of leaves rustling nearby and Geralt looked up, heart pounding eagerly in his chest. “Jaskier?”

The wolf that stepped out of the trees was far too large to be Jaskier. As were the two massive creatures that walked alongside it. 

Dark eyes the color of pitch stared at Geralt with predatory intent. The wolf was large enough to reach Geralt’s hip at the shoulder and it carried the heavy muscle mass of a hunter. It’s black coat was mimicked by the wolf on its left while his other packmate was a mottled grey that mimicked the wolves that roamed near Kaer Morhen. A low snarl grew in volume from the wolf to the right of their leader and the Witcher had a moment to wish he hadn’t stepped so far away from his weapons before a bristling, furious body was sliding into place in front of him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathed, surprised despite himself to see him again.

Jaskier’s ears remained flat against his head as he glared at the other wolves, but he shifted until his fur brushed against the fabric of Geralt’s pants. It shouldn’t have left him breathless, but he found himself oddly off-balanced by the simple gesture.

The largest of the wolves moved forward until Jaskier popped his teeth in warning, his growls growing in volume until his whole body was vibrating with it. The dark wolf stopped a few yards away and Geralt caught the faint ozone of magic in the air a moment before the wolf shuddered all over. Bone snapped and popped beneath skin before the fur rippled away to reveal a tall, muscular brunette man who watched them with the same dark eyes of the wolf.

“Well, little beta,” he rumbled in a voice that was designed for summoning beasts to wild hunts, “you’ve led us on a merry chase--I didn’t think you’d have the balls to wander so close to home.”

Jaskier’s bright eyes snapped fire at the other shifter.

The shifter hmm’d without seeming bothered by the wolf’s obvious menace and looked beyond him to where Geralt was still silently standing. “Is this the man you’ve been chasing after like a little fool?” he asked with a mocking scoff, “The mate who abandoned you?”

“That’s not true,” Geralt snapped, flushing at the laughter in the other wolf’s expression. Jaskier went silent in front of him, his tail drooping slightly.

Guilt fought with defensive fury. No matter how much he wished it wasn’t true--Geralt hadn’t just abandoned Jaskier. He’d  _ broken _ him. Used everyone of the weaknesses he’d gathered over the years of them traveling together like they were weapons, cutting deep. He’d ensured Jaskier had hidden away from all the things that had made him happy in an effort to avoid Geralt and ensure he could have the ‘blessing’ he’d asked for. 

The worst part was that he’d known just how badly he was hurting Jaskier but hadn’t cared--all he’d wanted to do was cause the same pain that felt like it was drowning him. Jaskier had always been an easy target. Loyal even after all the times Geralt had hurt him and mocked him and done everything but be the friend Jaskier had always been to him. 

Gods, he didn’t deserve this. Jaskier should have left him to die with the Nilfgaardians where he wouldn’t continue to hurt the people who were foolish enough to care about him.

“Poor little Dandelion,” the shifter continued as if Geralt hadn’t spoken, his eyes still fixed on Jaskier’s smaller form, “no matter how many times you call him the White Wolf, he isn’t one. He’ll never understand everything you sacrificed to stay with him.”

Jaskier trembled beneath the alpha’s words, each one landing like a blow.

The shifter smiled gently at Jaskier, crouching despite his nudity in front of the other wolf. He tilted his head in a silent mimic of a wolf’s body language. “You’ve embarrassed yourself enough for him. He’ll never be the mate you crave--”

“Stop it!” Geralt spat, startling Jaskier and the other wolves with his vehemence. “Stop pretending like you care about him. You’re just manipulating him.”

Jaskier’s ears twitched in his direction, but the other wolf just laughed. “Or what, Witcher? Don’t pretend like you give a damn about some shifter who was stupid enough to follow you for years without a single bit affection in return. I can smell the stink of a rejected mate from here…”

Between them, Jaskier’s shoulders hunched in obvious misery as his former alpha laid bare all of the ways the bard had been rejected by Geralt without the Witcher ever realizing. It made the knife shaped edge of guilt twist deeper in his chest. A hot flush curled up his neck at the realization of just how much he needed to expose in order to begin to heal all the hurts he’d created with all of his mistakes.

“That’s not true.”

The shifter scoffed, but Geralt ignored him in favor of focusing on Jaskier.

“I love him,” he said and let the scent of his truth saturate the air around them until Jaskier shifted slightly to allow one wide eye to focus on him. Geralt tried to smile at him, but he knew it came out as more of a grimace as he tried to find the words to express himself. “I was an idiot and an asshole. I don’t deserve the gifts he gave me but…”

He took a deep breath and tried not to think of the way the other wolves had begun to growl at him or how foolish he felt. “I swear to spend the rest of my life trying to make all your sacrifice worth it. I’ll probably fuck it up again, but I swear I’ll wake up every morning until my dying day loving you.”

Jaskier turned to stare at him, fully ignoring the alpha at his back in order to blink up at the Witcher. 

They stared at one another for a long moment before Jaskier’s chest heaved in a deep breath like he was deciding something. He turned back toward the alpha and Geralt felt the magic gathering in the air before Jaskier’s human form was standing in front of him. 

The bard stared at the other shifters without an ounce of shame or fear. “I have no intention of returning to your pack, Silas, and my choices are my own,” His voice trembled slightly despite the way his chin tilted defiantly at the larger man, “Go home.”

Silas’ eye flicked back and forth between Jaskier and Geralt before he bared his teeth in a scowl. “You’re making a mistake. You don’t belong here.”

“That’s no longer your concern.”

With a sniff of disdain, Silas shifted back into the hulking wolf from before and led the way into the trees. The other dark wolf hesitated before releasing a breath and following after him. The grey stared at Jaskier for a long moment before pressing his nose against Jaskier’s palm and letting the man run his fingers over his ruff. The gesture felt oddly intimate and Geralt found himself shifting awkwardly behind the bard until the wolf made a soft woof and darted after his packmates.

Then it was just Geralt and Jaskier.

The bard kept his back turned towards the Witcher in an attempt to maintain the modesty that had been lost in his shift. There was an awkward tension in the air between them now--too much had been said to pretend like they could go back to the way things had been before. Geralt watched Jaskier’s fingers twitch at his side in a familiar display of nervous energy that still made him smile before he spoke.

“Did you mean what you said?” There was no emotion in the carefully measured tones to give Geralt an indication of what the other man was thinking.

Geralt hesitated before deciding honesty was the least he could offer Jaskier after everything he’d done, he answered simply, “Yes.”

“You never cared before.”

“It took losing you to realize how much you meant to me,” Geralt winced and ran a hand through his hair, “I fucked up. I should never have said those things. I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

Still, Jaskier didn’t turn around and Geralt felt his heart sink. “Are you just here because you feel guilty?”

“I’m here because I miss you. I miss seeing you everyday and all the ways you made my life better when we traveled together.” When Jaskier didn’t respond, Geralt forced himself to continue. “Yennefer made me realize just how awful I was to you and all I could think about was finding you so I could apologize and try to make things right.”

“So you two made up.”

Geralt winced at the bitter edge of his voice. “We’re friends, nothing more. What I felt for her is nothing like what I feel for you.”

Jaskier turned to meet Geralt’s eyes for the first time, his face uncharacteristically blank. “And what do you feel for me?”

“I love you, Jaskier.” The words felt too simple for the emotions triggered by the bard. “Not as a friend or as a companion. I--I’m in love with you.”

The bard blinked--the first sign of a reaction. He looked uncertain and Geralt felt another bloom of guilt for creating such a response. The other man’s lip trembled slightly and he bit down on it until it flushed red. Geralt forced himself not to stare at Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier lunged forward in a burst of speed that left Geralt gasping in surprise when his arms were suddenly full of warm skin and the scent of home. He wrapped his arms around the smaller man instinctively, trying not to tremble when Jaskier sighed and relaxed against him. Geralt buried his nose in dark hair that was still tangled with leaves and twigs from his weeks as a wolf and felt his heart pound in his chest like it was trying to move closer.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I’m so so sorry.”

Jaskier’s lips brushed against his jaw and Geralt shuddered feeling overwhelmed by this unexpected gift. “Tell me again,” he demanded.

“I’m sorr--”

“No,” Jaskier interrupted impatiently, trying to move impossibly closer, “tell me again.”

“I love you,” Geralt promised. “Always.”

“I intend to hold you to that.”

The Witcher smiled. “Deal.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! Maybe one of these days I'll some more one shots in this 'verse.
> 
> In the meantime, check out some of my other fics for more angst, whumps, and glorious fluffy endings. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
